


and when you smile

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wouldn't think, when you see them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and when you smile

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of just saw the prompt and wanted to write it, so I did. It's short and kind of sweet and it'd been a long time since I'd written fluff, and my big bang is bugging me, so, just, this. Pretty boys being quiet and happy.

You wouldn't think, when you see them.  
  
You wouldn't think they're international superstars – they look just like the boys from your neighbourhood, messy haircuts and scruffy sneakers, laughing in the park next to your house. You don't really give them a second glance – or maybe just one, because of their hair, one really blond and one red, but then you turn away, satisfied with the quiet happiness.  
  
They don't remember exactly when it started. They probably couldn't pinpoint the date – when they met, their first kiss, the first time they fucked, the first shared after-sex cigarette or whatever that is that determines the start of their relationship. They don't have an anniversary. It doesn't bother them.  
  
And it's not passionate love, either – they don't even bother to call it love at all, maybe it is, maybe it isn't. It's not Harry and Louis and being blind and furious, it isn't the bruises and the tears. They aren't lovers. They aren't friends. They're something in between, balanced between subdued and brash, an impressionist painting or the harsh lines of a Picasso, if they were pretentious enough to compare their lives to paintings.  
  
They probably met the way everyone meets – they were in the same place at the same time and something happened that made them see each other, smile and think,  _that could be nice_. They hung out, knocked shoulders, talked about music. Laughed, too. They probably shared a bowl or two, like they do now, even though now it's different, more intimate somehow. Harry must have laughed at them at some [point](http://theviolonist.livejournal.com/12466.html), and left, because he doesn't like to see things play out.  
  
It's between tours – Niall's and Ed's both – and they're in Ed's apartment, wearing Ed's faded T-shirts, green with faint splatters of blue and red. Niall's falls low on his hips, and he hasn't got anything underneath, just his boxers. He says he likes to 'feel the breeze'. Ed laughs, low and calm.  
  
It's three p.m. but they make breakfast anyway, because they can, because it's not yet summer but the sun is already shining, gently pouring honey on their shoulders. They chuckle because of nothing – Niall makes gross jokes and Ed frowns until Niall flicks at his [face](http://theviolonist.livejournal.com/12466.html), kisses his shoulder.  
  
They smoke while eating. It's a bit heterogeneous, like everything they do – cigarettes and beers and omelette and cereals and milk with an orange on the side for Ed because he likes to stay healthy. He doesn't like his body very much, but Niall tells him he's beautiful, over and over again, like a stubborn kid ( _you'rebeautifulyou'rebeautifulyou'rebeautifylfuckyou'resobeautiful_ ). Ed chuckles and says he doesn't have to say that, he's not a twelve-year-old girl like the ones that pay Niall's bills, he doesn't need to be reassured, he's not 'insecure'. Niall says, "Yes, you are," trying to sound stern but failing, a grin breaking on his face, wide and ridiculous and perfect.  
  
Ed leans over the table to kiss him but it turns out not to be such a good idea when he knocks over a glass of orange juice. It spills all over Niall's t-shirt.  
  
"That's what you get for trying to be cheesy," Niall says with his teeth, laughing wide and bright.  
  
Ed frets a bit over him, because he's a mother hen, and Niall lets him, shrugs off the T-shirt and just stands there bare-chested while Ed mops the juice off the floor. Niall hums a song that's not  _What Makes You Beautiful_ , for once. He loves not being on tour because he can get other songs to stick in his head. Not Ed's songs, though – but it's only because Ed's songs are made for listening when you're walking next to the sea, or when you're a little sad or a little happy, when you need to be a little heartbroken. But Niall always thought that of Ed's music.  
  
When he gets bored of just standing there and he's cleared all the food from the table, he tugs Ed up, whining a little. Ed ducks his head to smile. Niall pushes him against the counter and kisses him, deep and slow, with one hand resting on his shoulder and the other one of his chest. They could probably stay like this forever. It's so comfortable – like a really good couch or the perfect weather on a spring day, a love you've gotten used to that unwinds slowly, unwrapping its velvet ribbons.  
  
When they break the kiss, they just stand there for a moment, forehead against forehead. Niall would probably deny this ever happened to his grave, but really it's good, Ed's thumbs brushing against his hips. They breathe against each other's mouth and think about the days stretching ahead, empty of responsibilities and interviews, just them and a little breathing space, for once. They both like their jobs more than anything, but they need this, too.  
  
Ed insists they wash the dishes and they do, or Ed does while Niall watches, plastered against Ed's back, trying to distract him. Ed swats his hand away each time it strays too low on his stomach, because he does have to do the dishes and they can do...  _that_  after. They have the whole week-end to do that. They end up washing together, Niall's fingers curling around Ed's in the warm, soapy water. It's nice, domestic.  
  
They get their guitars out after that, because at the end of the day they're still musicians, even if they're not the same type of the musicians, the same type of men. They get along well enough, and really that's the only thing that matters, the only demand they have. They're not demanding, in general; they're easy.  
  
They go to sit on the patio. Niall makes a detour by the kitchen to grab a pack of crisps and two beers and they just strum distractedly, an entangled melody that doesn't have an end or a beginning, just easy harmonies for the careless beauty of it. Ed sings a little, low enough so that Niall doesn't hear the lyrics.  
  
"Speak up," he says, even though he should probably say 'sing up'. Ed does, but it's mostly da da da and badam badam, like a lullaby. Niall bobs his head along.  
  
It all devolves into kissing and groping because they're musicians and they can appreciate the way their fingers glide over the chords, stroke the notes out of their instruments. It's a bit like magic, a bit wonderful. Niall is the one that makes the first move, because he always does, and he just sets his guitar down and takes a swig of his beer and then straddles Ed's lap, gently removing the guitar from his hands. Ed looks up at him. Niall laughs. It's a good thing, the way he laughs at everything, without reason, without prompting. Once, when Ed was drunk (it does happen fairly often), he told him that it was a good outlook on life, and Niall shrugged. "Thanks, dude," he said easily, and laughed again, and Ed looked in wonder and bent to kiss him against the fridge, Niall's back pressed against the white surface, craning his neck.  
  
"Ya're a fracking giant," Niall says as he drags his fingers into his hair, like each time. And like each time, Ed says, "No I'm not, you're just fucking tiny," and then they look at each other and they kiss, because. Because.  
  
They fuck on the patio, in the sun. It's slow and lazy, Niall's fingers dragging on the milky length of Ed's back. They both have very white skin, even though Ed's is more freckled. "You're weird," Niall says as he kisses the freckles on Ed's back, one by one, and from anyone else, it would've sounded like an insult, but in Niall's mouth it doesn't.  
  
"Talk for yourself, freak," Ed answers fondly, and flips them over, Niall's erection digging into his thigh.  
  
They're too lazy to really fuck, so it's just a couple of messy handjobs and Niall rimming the hell out of Ed, laughing again while Ed pants and moans and says his name more times than is necessary, like he never wants to forget it. Ed is sappy like that.  
  
Niall lights another cigarette after that and Ed looks disapproving but does it too. Niall talks, about the guys and things and films he went to see and liked, because he likes a lot of things and doesn't dislike much (except when he hates, and then nothing can deter him). He's brash and loud and funny and a little juvenile, and he calls Ed a big girl when Ed talks about birds and girls he never wanted to kiss, only to hold and write songs about because they were beautiful.  
  
It's the way they work, and they work. They work. They wake up in the morning and go to sleep together and they don't ask questions, don't talk about it, only work, swift and easy like a river.  
  
The most serious they get is when Niall asks, "Ya'll write a song about us, then?"  
  
It's almost dark, the night splashing odd colours in the sky, pink and indigo.  
  
Ed shrugs. "Maybe."  
  
Niall lights up, waving his cigarette around. Ashes and embers fly everywhere, and Ed ducks away to avoid them. "You have to, mate. That'd be cracking. The boys would get mental."  
  
Ed smiles. He likes the boys, all of them, always has. Harry is more his type, his type of friend, because he understands his music a little bit better and they kind of move in the same circles, even though Ed mostly doesn't move in any circles at all, is happy with staying at home and making music and playing his Legos. He has more than he knows what to do with, now. He could probably build a castle. He thinks about asking Niall if he'd like that, building a big Lego house in the living-room that they could hide in and pretend they're in another world. The thought flies in one ear and out the other, only leaving a trail of dusty stars behind it, a frail thought of  _he would laugh but say yes and we'd..._  that stutters into silence.  
  
"Yeah, who knows," Ed says, and he takes a swig of his beer. Maybe he'll write a song about them. These moments they share are the kind he writes about, only a little different because it's Niall, and Niall curses every two sentences and breaks a lot of things, plates and windows and whatnot. He doesn't break Ed's heart, though, that's a nice improvement.  
  
They watch a movie curled up in the couch, Niall tucked against Ed's ribs. Ed kisses his face methodically while they don't watch something about spies, nose, hair, eyelashes, lips. Niall huffs impatiently. He's young and bright and his accent tilts his words when he says, "Come on," or "faster" or "Ed".  
  
Niall tucks his cold feet under Ed's thigh and it makes Ed startle, even though Niall always has cold feet (not in a metaphorical way, though. He doesn't have cold feet, metaphorically, doesn't have cold anything). They kiss and kiss and watch the second half of the movie and then fall asleep like that, with the pizza carton still open on the table and the TV on, humming cheerful nonsense.  
  
(At the end of the week-end Niall balls Ed's T-shirt and throws it in his bag with his other balled-up, wrinkled clothes. Ed doesn't ask. They kiss and fuck one last time that doesn't feel like a last time, that feels like every other time they've fucked, still a little high from the pot and giggling when Niall can't quite align the head of his cock against Ed's hole.  
  
"Seeya," Niall says in front of the closed door, pushing his slick lips against Ed's. They have hectic schedules – who knows when they'll see each other again, but they will, of course they will. This is nice. This is good.  
  
"Yeah," Ed says, and he's already thinking about his songs about girls with fragile bones, "see ya."  
  
The door doesn't make any sound when it slides shut after Niall. Ed won't know he's waiting until he sees Niall cross it the next time, and then he won't be waiting anymore. For now, he puts on a kettle, opens a notebook and sits cross-legged on his too-comfortable couch, and sets to building new worlds of pale summer colours and love songs.)  


  



End file.
